


Cruising Altitude

by sifuamelia



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Anxiety Attacks, Childhood Memories, Denial of Feelings, Family Feels, Feelings Realization, Female Pronouns for Pidge | Katie Holt, Hunk & Pidge | Katie Holt Friendship, Japanese Keith (Voltron), Japanese Shiro (Voltron), Keith & Shiro (Voltron) are Cousins, Keith (Voltron) Angst, Keith (Voltron) has PTSD - Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, Lance (Voltron) is a Good Friend, Mild Language, Multi, Mutual Pining, POV Alternating, POV Keith (Voltron), POV Lance (Voltron), Past Character Death, Past Relationship(s), Pilots, Playlist, Sassy Pidge | Katie Holt, Space Uncle Coran (Voltron), Twisted and Fluffy Feelings, Wedding Fluff, Weddings
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-01
Updated: 2018-07-01
Packaged: 2019-05-31 13:38:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,255
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15120542
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sifuamelia/pseuds/sifuamelia
Summary: Ace Air Force pilot Keith Kogane is in the right place at the right time — just as he lands his jet at an airbase in southern Florida after a routine surveillance mission, he learns that a commercial airliner is departing from Miami to Haneda, with only a few of the airline’s staff aboard for the overnight ride. But as he settles in for what he thinks will be some much-needed shut-eye before his older cousin’s extravagant wedding the next day, he’s dismayed to realize that this flight will grant him anything but.Lance McClain has been a pilot with Garrison Airlines for a couple of years, and there’s nothing that he loves more than journeying through the open sky… and, of course, the free flights to new and exciting destinations all around the world, every single day. So when the airline CEO’s son invites him and his colleagues to his wedding in Tokyo, they jump at the chance to deadhead a plane out over the Pacific. With three of his fellow pilots (and one very eccentric flight attendant) in tow, it seems as if his next grand adventure is off to a great start. But then an unexpected passenger is added to their flight at the last minute……and everything changes.





	Cruising Altitude

“Kogane. You’re back.”

Keith stuffs his sweat-filled helmet under his arm as he knocks back nearly an entire water bottle in one go. _Man_ , did it get dry up there — his lips are itching to peel. “And you sound absolutely thrilled about it, ma’am,” he deadpans.

Beneath the industrial-strength lights of the unseasonably chilly Quonset hut, Major Ilun just stares at him from her seat behind the squat records desk. She’s never been a particularly humorous one. But then again, neither is Keith. At least, not when it comes to work. He’d like to think that he can make a successful joke or two when absolutely necessary. Like, if somebody ever puts a gun to his head, or something.

Oh, man. Shiro's right — he really _has_ developed a disturbingly morbid streak, hasn't he?

“Well,” he says awkwardly, and he tosses his water bottle into the recycling bin as he passes her, “I’ll see you around.”

He’s almost made it out alive when her ever-raspy voice suddenly decides to follow him, echoing across the dull concrete floor and bouncing off of the corrugated steel walls like a shot: “The General’s looking for you.”

Keith winces. _Great._ What did he do _this_ time?

“He wants to discuss your schedule,” Ilun elaborates flatly.

His nose wrinkles. ' _Schedule?' What schedule—_

“Aw, _shit_ ,” he mutters. Schedule. Right. Shiro’s going to kill him if this doesn’t work out… that is, if their _obaasan_ doesn’t do him in first. He doesn’t even have to look over his shoulder to know that his superior officer is smirking after him as he leaves the room, his step a little bit quicker than when he’d entered it. ‘Cause _shit_.

 

* * *

 

Keith takes a deep, steadying breath before knocking out a sharp tap on the base office’s heavy door.  _Please please please please PLEASE—_

It opens immediately, and he nearly falls backward in surprise. For all of his acute pilot’s instincts, Keith’s nerves are markedly shakier when his feet are touching the ground.

Just another indicator that he belongs to the sky.

“Captain Kogane,” Major Regris says, his wiry frame filling the doorway, sharp features clearly uncaring that his subordinate seems to breathing just a little bit too heavily for comfort.

Keith straightens, squares his shoulders. _Attention._ “Sir,” he mumbles.

Regris appraises him, those glassy eyes of his absolutely fathomless. But then he shrugs, only offering Keith a neutral, “Welcome back,” as he shuts the door behind them.

The office is lit slightly more warmly than the hangar that Keith just emerged from, but the place still makes him shiver. Even though this base — Homestead Air Reserve — is flanked by Everglades National Park to its left and the rocky Atlantic waters of Biscayne Bay to the right, its military-grade uniformity puts him all the way back to his younger days in San Antonio, where the blocky build of the Air Force General sitting at its head belonged not to steely-eyed Kolivan, but instead, to Keith’s—

“Captain,” General Kolivan nods. “Well met.”

“Sir,” Keith repeats, respectfully but warily, as he salutes his commanding officer.

The general steeples his fingers atop the shiny surface of his stately desk. His hair, as stark white as the sterile walls around them, dangles over his beefy shoulder in the twist of a tight braid. Only God knows how the man has managed to avoid army haircut regulations. Keith, on the other hand, had said a mournful good-bye to his own longer locks nearly two years ago, and his head still feels rather naked for it, even now.

“Anything to report?”

Keith promptly shakes his head. “Clear skies, General, sir. Nothing to see up there.”

Something in Kolivan’s chin quirks. “Good.” And then: “Colonel Antok. The package, please.”

 _‘The package?’_ It sounds _far_ too ominous, especially when coupled with the appearance of Kolivan’s second-in-command from behind the base mailroom’s door. The colonel is absolutely _massive_ , a real beast of a man, and even hulking Kolivan looks diminished next to him.

Antok dips his head in Keith’s direction before unceremoniously depositing an unmarked cardboard box atop the general’s well-organized desk. Its weight shifts a few of his meticulously aligned pens out of place.

“For you,” Kolivan explains without explaining. He painstakingly resets his pens, then leans back slightly to admire his handiwork.

Keith can feel his nose wrinkling. “Uhhh...”

The general stands up without warning, and Keith immediately recognizes that he’s being dismissed. He can only stare as his superiors begin to file out of the main office, Kolivan first, followed closely by the other two. But not without a final parting shot of, “Enjoy your flight, Keith. Give your cousin and the Iverson boy my best wishes.”

Keith stares after him for a full five heartbeats before the front door slams shut. As soon as the trio is out of earshot, though, he eagerly tears into the sizable package. Because who in the hell _doesn’t_ like presents? That is, if that’s what—

An envelope, laid neatly atop a lump of something wrapped in white tissue paper. It contains two credits for Garrison Airlines… signed off by Mitchum Iverson himself? Well, _that’s_ something — he wonders if it was Adam who put in a good word for him. After all, Commander Iverson can't like him very much, even after all of these years. Not after that little stunt that Keith pulled back in flight school...

He shakes off the unpleasant memory, focusing on making his way through the white tissue paper—

“Civilian clothes,” Keith whispers to himself, examining the contents of the outfit with near-reverent fingers. Kolivan hadn’t forgotten anything — dark jeans, plain t-shirt, and…

He hugs the red leather jacket to his heavily uniformed chest and breathes out a deep sigh of relief. He’s finally, finally,  _finally_ going home.

 

* * *

 

_Commander and Mrs. Mitchum Iverson_

_Request the honour of your presence at the marriage of their son_

_COLONEL ADAM WEBER IVERSON to MAJOR GENERAL SHIROGANE TAKASHI_

_Son of Dr. and Dr. Shirogane Ryou_

_Saturday, the first of June at seven o’clock in the evening_

 

_Ceremony to be held at the Meiji Shrine in Shibuya, Tokyo_

_Reception to follow at the Mandarin Oriental_

 

Hunk pokes at the wedding invitation laid out on the slightly sticky dining table before them with marked curiosity expressed in his rounded eyes. “‘Honour?’ That’s fancy.”

Pidge crowds in, too, leaning over the table as a means for her own appraisal. She curiously pinches at the edge of the invitation, taking in its elegant script and scalloped border with a certain degree of admiration. “Good quality paper stock, too.”

“Wouldn’t expect anything less from _that_ family,” Matt yawns, stretching his skinny arms up and over his head as he leans back in one of the break room’s overstuffed armchairs. He settles into its leather-covered arms with a pleased sigh, lanky limbs extended every which way like a particularly floppy starfish's. He'd just gotten into Miami from O'Hare — not a _terribly_ long flight, but with legs like those, even a few hours in a cramped cockpit can show no mercy to a tall body.

Lance sighs heavily as he dejectedly plops down into one of the table’s matching stiff-back chairs, methodically rolling his sore shoulders beneath his crisp white button-down. “And here I always thought _I’d_ be the one to get married first…”

"To _whomst_ , exactly?" Hunk wonders.

Lance fidgets uncomfortably in his seat, and he can feel his cheeks pinking. Even beneath the veil of his already darkening summer tan, he knows that the others will be able to perceive it... and subsequently drag him mercilessly for it.

" _Ooooohhhhh_ ," Hunk drawls, catching up to his train of thought so quickly that Lance kind of feels like tearing his hair out (yes, the hair that he's put an exorbitant amount of time and funds into upkeeping). "I think I know where this is going—“

Pidge immediately joins him in hijacking Lance's sad little train. “ _You_? Marry Allura d'Altea?” she giggles. “But you, you’re so—“

Hunk coughs aggressively.

Pidge glares at him from behind the lenses of her massive spectacles, her thick, twitching eyebrow quite a sight to behold. “All I was gonna say was, you’re… You’re a normal guy, Lance.”

Lance groans, letting his head fall into his hands. _'Normal.'_   _That_ was certainly one way to put it.

“In the best way possible!” Hunk adds quickly, shoving Pidge and her lackluster efforts at complimenting their moping friend out of the way once and for all. “You’re just not, er, well—“

“Look, Mr. McClain,” Coran ventures from his spot at the kitchenette’s sink. Garrison Airlines’ most senior flight attendant is currently wringing out a sopping dish towel, the evening’s clean-up of a Wolfgang-Puck-meets-Buffalo-Wild-Wings feast absolutely _demolished_ , to its very last crumb — in other words, an airport layover meal done right.

“You're a lovely young man, you really are, but Miss d’Altea _is_ quite a bit older than you, and her parents, they have certain… _expectations_ for their one and only daughter. You know, the sole heir to the family fortune, and all that—“

Lance shoots them all a grimace. “Y'all can’t comfort a guy to save your goddamn lives.”

Pidge grumbles something or other under her breath as she eyes her reflection in the lounge's freestanding mirror, her eye bags slightly more pronounced than usual as she pins her fluffy honey-blonde hair up into a neat bun before shoving her white-topped pilot’s cap back onto her head. She proceeds to fiddle with her navy blue tie, finally leaving Lance to his wallowing... but Hunk is always there to lay a beefy hand on his best friend’s shoulder.

“That’s what we have _you_ around for, Lance,” he reminds him with a gentle smile, clearly intending to comfort.

Lance returns it wanly, but he’s still caught up in his swirling thoughts of the daughter of Altea Airlines’ — one of Garrison's partner companies beneath the Voltron Air umbrella — CEO, her cascading silvery hair and sparkling ocean eyes and shining toothy smile filling up his mind, stuffing it to the brim until he can’t think straight. Allura d’Altea had been just a few years ahead of him at Arus Prep, but they’d grown close as student government class presidents and captains of their respective genders’ soccer teams. His crush on her had been more than obvious from the get-go, much to their friends’ entertainment, but she’d always taken his affections in an amused sort of stride.

But then she’d gone back home to enroll at the University of Oxford before he graduated from high school, and their paths didn’t cross for nearly eight years. By the time Lance reentered her life as a pilot rising through the ranks within Voltron Air, she was engaged to some discount noble, a smarmy guy who’d treated all of her old friends like the dirt beneath his well-heeled feet…

...that is, until news broke that he was only in it to steal the d’Altea family fortune. An international scandal, indeed.

It didn’t matter, though. Allura met Ryan soon afterward, and the rest is history. Lance likes Kinkade — in fact, he admires him. Maybe even idolizes him — he was one of his dedicated mentors at Arus, before he left his teaching stint at the school behind to move to New Zealand (the ancestral home of the d'Alteas) with the one true love of Lance’s unlucky life. He can’t be mad at him for it, though. And after all, Kinkade  _was_ the one who told him to never give up on his dream of becoming a pilot someday. So there's _that_.

Lance sighs again, one last time for good measure, before standing up from the table and shaking himself out. No use in dwelling on it — Allura’s happy, and Ryan Kinkade makes her happy. And in the grand scheme of things, that’s what matters most to him... right?

“You and your crushes, Lance,” he hears Matt chuckle as he reaches down to touch his toes. “I don’t think I’ve ever known you _not_ to be pining over somebody or other.”

Even though he’s practically bent in half, head hanging upside down, Lance still manages an impressive eye roll. “Okay, Mr. Pot. Maybe take a look in the mirror before you mess with _this_ kettle.”

Hunk snorts over the sound of Matt’s spluttering. “Touché.”

But Pidge is more than ready to chime in on her older brother's teasing. “Hey, remember that one guy who was in the year between you and Allura? What's-his-face Kogane?"

" _Keith_ Kogane?" Hunk supplies helpfully.

"Oh, that really grouchy kid?" Matt exclaims. "Yeah, he was in classes with me and Allura and the others till he, like, washed out. Don't think I saw him smile once the whole three and a half years I knew him..."

Lance’s heart nearly stops at the mere mention of one of their former classmates. “You guys suck,” he manages to choke out as he straightens himself up, abandoning his toes for good.

“Aw, look, he’s _blushing_ —!”

“I hate to interrupt your friendly banter,” Coran suddenly breaks in (although he sounds like anything but, and it's much to Lance's relief), “but I’ve just received word from the dispatch tower!"

They immediately fall silent at the sight of the older man's face, impassive beneath its impressive ginger whiskers. News from the flight tower? Was there bad weather ahead? Were they not cleared for take-off—?

"We got the go-ahead," he says, and his dimpled chin curves with a smile. "We’re on schedule to deadhead to Tokyo! Just in time for the wedding!”

The four pilots look at each other for a beat of silence before Pidge bursts out with a triumphant, “YES!”

Hunk’s hand shoots up. “I call the aux cord!” he hollers. "I've got the best music!"

Matt jumps out of his armchair, eagerly grasping at Coran’s forearm. “Can we hook up my Wii to the first class flatscreen? _Please_ , Coran? Pretty please?”

Coran sighs at the very sight of them all bouncing off of the walls with excitement, but it’s definitely on the _fond_ side of the sighing spectrum. “Children, children," he tries imperiously, but it's broken up by his own amused chuckle as Matt makes a mad lap around the room like a beloved soccer player having just scored a victorious goal, his complains of his aches and pains seemingly completely forgotten.

"Calm down, please!" he calls crisply. "Just because we aren’t moving passengers tonight doesn’t mean we can completely shirk our responsibilities as respectable pilots of Garrison Airlines!”

"Aw, c'mon, Coran!" Hunk pleads, clasping his pilot's cap tightly to his chest. "I'm an excellent road trip DJ, just ask Lance! Lance, buddy, vouch for me, I'm begging you!"

Lance gives in — he's never been able to resist his best friend's puppy dog eyes, not since they were thrust together as frightened first-time roommates at Arus's lower school. They'd followed each other all of the way to university, and then to get their piloting licenses. And that'd been a very great comfort for Lance for the span of an entire decade.

But as he watches the other three try to wear Coran down in their own special (re: obnoxious) ways, a pit in his stomach begins to reform, nudging all of the warmth and light brought about by his exuberance over the chance to deadhead away until all that he feels is a dull sense of hollowness. First Allura moved on, and she hadn't looked back once. And Lance knows that Hunk doesn't aim to fly the skies forever — he's a trained engineer, too, and a good one at that. He's reassured Lance over and over again that he doesn't regret his years spent flying planes beside him, but Lance can see that what his best friend _really_ wants to do is build those planes. Iverson himself has already given his young employee a personal tour of the Silicon Valley-based factory where they develop most of their engines, and over Memorial Day weekend, Shay _did_ mention something about looking at condos around San Jose—

"Lance?" he hears Hunk ask him softly, accompanied by an elbow nudge to the ribs. "You... You okay there, my man?"

Lance swallows past the growing lump in his throat before forcing up a smile. "Yeah," he replies. "Just peachy."

 

* * *

 

Keith grew up on an airfield in the vast middle of the American Southwest, but Miami International Airport is still shocking in its enormity. Four terminals, six concourses, countless commercial and cargo airliners flying in and out each and every day of the year. Even now, when it's nearing midnight, the entire place is lit up like the Fourth of July, with people of all kinds — rushing businessmen, chattering families, lost-looking tourists — milling all about.

From his seat in the back of an overly air-conditioned Uber, he spots a young girl and her mother waiting curbside. They're holding some kind of poster, and the girl has a cheap little American flag clenched tightly in her chubby fist. When they spot a man in an olive-green t-shirt and camouflage pants tucked into sand-colored boots emerging from the brightly lit terminal, Keith can just make out their exclamations of delight as they all fall into each other's arms. The man kisses the woman's tearful face over and over again, as if he's trying to make sure that she's real, that this isn't just another dream.

Keith sinks a little bit lower into his seat, the view out of the car's window no longer at eye-level.

"Terminal?" the driver asks pleasantly.

"Central F," Keith replies shortly. "Garrison Airlines."

The driver merges in a leisurely fashion into the next lane over. "Ah, Garrison. That Mitch Iverson's made quite a name for himself, hasn't he."

Keith grunts. He hates to admit it, but yeah, Iverson's okay. Left a bad taste in Keith's mouth way back when, but he's an admittedly generous man, sometimes uncomfortably so — he'd make sure to thank the guy for those valuable credits tomorrow at the reception — to Keith and the rest of the Shirogane family. Still, Keith's glad that he's going to be _Shiro's_ father-in-law, not his. In his eyes, being the son-in-law of one of the most powerful men in the world sounds anything but simple.

And at the end of the day, he himself would like something simple.

"That son of his is a looker." The man lets out what can only be described as a dreamy sigh.

Keith smirks into the collar of his coat. "He's getting married this weekend."

"Yeah, read it on page six," the driver affirms, tone forlorn. "Lucky man, that fiancé of his. Wonder what he's like."

"Annoyingly perfect," Keith mutters.

"Pardon?"

"N-Never mind..."

As the car rolls to a stop, the driver eyes him in the rearview mirror. "You have a good flight, now, kid. Safe travels, wherever you're headed."

"Thank you, sir," Keith nods, tipping his beat-up Arus Lions baseball cap in the man's direction as he shimmies awkwardly out of the sedan. He wheels his carry-on rollerboard behind him as he makes his way through the muggy Miami air, past the taxi line and the weigh station, until the sliding glass doors of Central Terminal welcome him into the airport with a blast of cooling air.

An airport. Keith breathes deeply, breathes in the smell of industrial-grade cleaners, and the sounds of loudspeaker announcements and the _clack-clack-clack_ of countless suitcase wheels dragging across spotless white tiles. And his dad's words echo in his head as if they're being said directly into his ear—

 _Folks like us, Keith, we belong to the sky. That means the whole **world's** our home. _ As a kid, it was the most profound thing that he'd ever heard. But now Akira's gone and Keith's going on twenty-four...

...and the only home that he really wants to be in anymore is the one that has his family in it.

 

* * *

 

Keith squints up at the departures screen — no listings for Haneda International. But Iverson's instructions had said as much — they wouldn't list a deadhead flight for just _anybody_ to see. So he whips out his badge and slides easily through TSA Pre-Check before heading deeper into the terminal, knowing that whichever gate is the emptiest, it's probably his.

A deadhead — bless Iverson's heart, and he means it genuinely (not like how his father used to say it). To Keith's over-exhausted body and brain, a flight meant to simply transport a plane and its crew, with no passengers in sight, sounds like a abso-fucking-lute dream. No whiny middle-aged women, no businessmen leering at the uncomfortable attendants preparing their overpriced cocktails. No screaming babies. It's time to get the shut-eye that he deserves.

He eyes the glossy letters arcing over the entryway to Voltron Air's section of the terminal, its iconic logo illuminated in soft primary color lighting. _Voltron Air — Your gateway to the world._  Not a statement that's far off — _everybody_ knows Voltron and its luxury subsidiaries, even people who aren't literally about to marry into its family. Plus, executive board members Mitchum Iverson and Alfor d'Altea have their business partner hands in more than just commercial aerospace — they have military-level industry connections, too, especially when it comes to tech development.

 _That_ was what really brought Shiro and Adam together, in the end. They hadn't really noticed each other as students at Arus (something that always surprised Keith, because unlike him, they'd practically been the prep school's poster children). But now, Shiro contracts Adam's family's planes, and that's the way that they fell in love — the kind of pure, selfless love that makes Keith want to simultaneously smile (because they're his family) and puke his guts out (also because they're his family).

As he tugs his rollerboard down the shiny lacquered hallway, he’s surprised by how quiet the place is, especially in comparison to the absolute madhouse that was security. But the well-lit floor-to-ceiling windows of the terminal offer him a sweeping view of the midnight Miami skyline, glowing like a beacon as it beckons in eager summer crowds, enthusiastically seeking out anything and everything that southern Florida has in store for them.

That thought gives Keith a bit of pause as he rounds the last corner toward where he's pretty sure his gate will be. What even goes on in Miami, anyway? He knows a weird amount of trivia about the Everglades — when they were little, Shiro was really into visiting national parks, to the point where he collected junior ranger badges from over a dozen of them. His Everglades visit had resulted in toddler-aged Keith's delighted reception of a soft green 'gator stuffy — "Big Daddy" — that he slept with for years, right up until he left Texas for basic training.

But this part of Florida isn't where Disney World is, right—?

"Keith? Is that... Is that you?"

There's a guy standing in front of him, _right_ there, at the edge of the corner, having just exited the men's bathroom. He's a pilot, no doubt about it — crisply-pressed dress slacks, short-sleeved white button-down, silky navy tie. His lapel is neatly pinned with the double-winged crest of Garrison Airlines. Still, the starched uniform seems at odds with his massive frame, as if he isn't quite comfortable in it within his hulking posture—

"Hunk?" Keith asks disbelievingly, gripping his rollerboard just a little bit tighter. Because that's _him_. Hunk Garrett — a year below him at Arus, but already taking the most advanced calculus and physics classes available to the upper school's students.

"You haven't changed a bit!" he finds himself exclaiming, an uncharacteristically enthusiastic move on his part. But it's almost eerie, really — the only thing that's missing from this living memory is that bright orange (like, traffic cone-colored orange) headband that the other boy — man — used to wear at every waking moment. Maybe even when he slept, too, come to think of it—

And that's when Keith's burnt-out brain decides to play an unnecessary little game of random word association: _Hunk. Sleeping. Dorms. Dorm rooms. Roommates._ _Lan—_

"Well, uh..." Hunk's mumbling jolts him straight out of it, thank the fucking _lord_. "Thanks?"

And that's all that Keith's got... but thankfully, Hunk's smile seems to be warming up to him, and he reaches out a thick-fingered hand to grasp Keith with a firm-but-not-at-all-awkward handshake. "Good but weird to see you _here_ , of all places," he says, dark eyes alight. "What're you doing in Miami, anyway?"

"Catching a flight," Keith answers vaguely. "How 'bout you?"

Hunk eyes him curiously, but all that he says is, "This is a big hub for Voltron Air. I'm actually about to head out on one of Garrison Airlines' 747s in an hour or so. Just waiting for it to finish fueling up and all that."

"You're... You're a pilot," Keith says slowly.

"Yup," Hunk confirms, popping the 'p,' and seemingly happily enough.

But still, Keith cocks his head, confused. "I thought... I thought you wanted to do, like, engineering? Or something?"

Hunk makes this weird little noise, almost like a strangled gulp. He absentmindedly rubs at the back of his beefy neck, not quite looking at Keith, but more at the mirror-like wings of his dress shoes. "We-ell..." he hedges, before finally settling on, "Things change." 

 _O-kay._ Keith isn't about to pry, they're basically strangers, but—

"Can't believe you remember that, man," Hunk says with a soft chuckle.

Keith shrugs. "You were really good at math, back at school. I always felt like you were a step or two ahead of everybody else in our classes."

Hunk stares at him from under his pilot's cap, bushy brows high with surprise.

"Wh-What?" Keith asks, suddenly feeling rather nervous. What did he do? What did he say? Did he mess up yet aga—

" _Dude_ ," the pilot says, crossing his arms over his barrel-shaped chest. "You're, like...  _so_ nice."

"What—!" Keith blinks rapidly, completely and utterly shocked by this admission. 'Nice?' He is  _so_ not nice. Never has been — if he'd been nice, he wouldn't have been kicked out of Arus. Because nice people probably don't go around punching the lights out of the school's trustees—

He's about to counter Hunk's words when the other man says something that throws him completely off of his tracks: "Dunno why Lance was always complaining about you."

 _Be cool be cool **be cool** — _Keith's brain threatens... but it feels as if every single cell in his body has suddenly stopped functioning.

So he says the very first thing that he can think of: "Who?"

Hunk looks slightly taken aback. "Y'know, Lance. Lance McClain? From my year?"

Keith just stares, because he's going to goddamn fake it till he goddamn makes it.

"Skinny? Loud? Always going on and on about shark conservation efforts and authentic garlic knot recipes?"

More staring. He should win an Academy Award for this acting. Seriously — it's god tier.

"Flirts with anything that moves?"

Oh, Keith knows whom Hunk is talking about, without a doubt. He knows who Lance McClain Acosta de la Cruz is. Even nearly half of a decade later, he doesn't stand a chance of forgetting a guy like _that_.

But all that he says is a rushed, "Don't recall."

Something in his gut twists uncomfortably almost immediately... but Hunk's already talking again. "Ah, well. Might as well see for yourself — maybe this'll jog your memory." And with a wide gesture, he points toward the nearest gate, indicating a small cluster of people congregated around it.

Keith immediately wants to die. Because he recognizes quite a few of them, save an older gentleman yammering away into an airline-issued walkie just a little ways off to the side, twirling an anxious finger through his shockingly ginger beard. He's dressed head-to-toe in navy and doesn't seem to have a white cap anywhere on his person — whomever he is, he's most likely support staff for Garrison.

The girl behind the check-in desk isn't a familiar face in the slightest, either, with her eye-watering pink hair and over-lined eyes, everything about her screaming complete and total apathy (a highly unusual attribute for somebody who probably does a lot of customer service work). There's _no_ way that she's a native Floridian, Keith reasons as he observes her. She's far too pale to be living permanently in such a sun-soaked place...

His eyes move onward, and he recognizes the Holt siblings with little effort. After all, Matt's still friends with Shiro, and Katie... well. She'd given even a guy like Hunk a run for his money in their shared STEM classes. Hell, she ran circles around _all_ of them, even when she had to get special permission to leave Arus's lower school to take upper school courses. 

And the last pilot… He’s leaning over the check-in desk on bony elbows, sticklike beneath the crisply-pressed sleeves of his uniform, strikingly brown against its starched white fabric. He’s long and lanky, and from the way that he’s postured, it seems as if his legs go on for miles and miles. He's laser-focused on his phone's screen, seemingly in the middle of tapping out a text. The tip of his pink tongue pinches slightly between his perfect teeth as he closely examines his message.

Keith's blood goes hot. Then cold. Then hot. And he still wants to die. Because standing right there, _right_ there, is—

"Where—" He coughs. "Where're you guys going?" But deep down, he already knows the answer. A nearly empty gate, with only Garrison staff in sight. No banner on the overhead screen declaring the flight's destination. Just a long ramp, waiting to be boarded...

"It's a deadhead, a two-legger. Rotating shifts throughout the journey, of course. We're gonna make a pit stop at LAX to refuel, and then we're on our merry way to Haneda Airport in Tokyo," Hunk explains. He cocks his head, and his pilot's cap almost slips straight off of his shaggy hair. "You're from Japan, aren't you, Keith?"

An odd question, although he supposes that he is — he _was_ born in Miyako, just like Shiro. Just like his father, too. But for most of his life, San Antonio had been his home. It was where he was raised, on the grounds of Lackland Air Force Base, playing tag and kick-the-can beneath the looming shadows of C-12s and F-22s. He'd fallen asleep in the security of his dad's lap countless times as Akira sat in on conference call after conference call with some of the most powerful men and women in the world, the movers and shakers of Planet Earth. And then Keith had enrolled at Arus, just a few miles down the interstate, because he was hell-bent on the idea that he was going to be just like his dad someday—

 _We belong to the sky, Keith,_ his dad had told him. The very last thing that he'd said to him... before everything changed forever.

"Y-Yeah, technically," he croaks after a too-long pause.

"Uh-huh..." Hunk eyes him thoughtfully, but thankfully, he doesn't say anything else besides asking, "Where're _you_ headed?"

 _Japan. Tokyo. Haneda. Shiro's wedding._ There are so many answers to that question, Keith doesn't even know where to start. But as he watches Lance, fixated on his cell phone's glowing screen, its blue light illuminating the faint dusting of freckles across the bridge of his ski-slope nose in a way that Keith can perceive even from afar...

"I'm on your plane," Keith finally admits. "I'm Air Force, and I have a Garrison credit... I'm on your plane to Haneda."

Hunk blinks, _hard_. His mouth forms a little _O_ —

And that's when _it_ happens. Lance McClain looks up.

**Author's Note:**

> Just writing away my "Catch Me If You Can" feels that I've backlogged since, like, high school...


End file.
